When early shades of evening's close
The air with solemn darkness fill,
Before the moonlight softly throws
Its fairy mantle o'er the hill,
A sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.

The Nightingale unto the rose
Its tale of love may fondly trill;
No love-tale this—'tis grief that flows
With pain that never can be still.
The sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.

Repeated oft, it never grows
Familiar, but is sadder still,
As though a spirit sought repose

I HAVE lost her, my loved one—
My heart is nigh broken.
As a mother her baby
So loved I my darling;
So would I have given
My loved one, my loved one, my heart!

I sit by the window
And think “Would she wed me!”
If she knew all my passion
As a mother her baby,
So would she have loved me,
And given her heart.

Outside of her garden
I wait for her coming
Though cometh she never—
Alas, now I know it,
She careth not for me
And mocketh at love!

I love the winter moon,
bright and crisp at the tip of plum trees,
vying in beauty with Feng I's six-fold blossoms.
The jade round and jeweled powder
illuminate each other,
summoning the poet from his dream of paradise.

The evening is for love As the morning is for toil
Though the fire is from above The pot is got to boil
A hard days work is mine And I'll live wi' care no more
So I'll see dew come to the woodbine at Isabella's door

Wi' hairy leaves and dro[o]ping flowers The canterberry bell
Grows underneath [the] hazle bower By most folks favoured well
Up the bean stalks creeps the snail The moth sleeps down below
The grey mist creep[s] along And I'll a courting go

I'll gang and Isabella see Nor more i'love repine

Said Winter to the Rose:
“When first my cold breath blows,
Your gentle reign is done.”
But said the Rose quite fearless:
“New splendid buds and peerless
Are waiting for the sun.”

Said Winter to my love:
“With fur and muff and glove
Guard thou thyself, or die.”
But said my love: “What folly!
Though flowers be dead, the holly
Is bright against the sky.”

Said Winter unto me:
“Take heed, arise and flee;
Thy strength is spent. Beware!”
Said I: “My love is near me;
Her bright eyes soothe and cheer me;
Lo! June is in the air.”

He stands where the young faces pass and throng;
His blank eyes tremble in the noonday sun:
He sees all life, the lovely and the strong,
Before him run.

Eager and swift, or grouped and loitering, they
Follow their dreams, on busy errands sped,
Planning delight and triumph; but all day
He shakes his head.

He stands where the young faces pass and throng;
His blank eyes tremble in the noonday sun:
He sees all life, the lovely and the strong,
Before him run.

Eager and swift, or grouped and loitering, they

The east unrolled a sheet of gold,
Gold for river and flower and limb;
As Helen once to Paris was
Was I to him.

All things gold fade gray and old,
Even the sun of love grows dim;
As Helen now to Paris is

Gaze not on thy beauties pride,
Tender Maid, in the false tide
That from Lovers eyes doth slide.

Let thy faithful Chrystall show,
How thy colours come, and goe,
Beautie takes a foyle from woe.

Love, that in those smooth streames lyes,
Under pities faire disguise,
Will thy melting heart surprize.

Nets, of passions finest thred,
Snaring Poems, will be spred,
All, to catch thy maiden-head.

Then beware, for those that cure
Loves disease, themselves endure
For reward a Calenture.

Rather let the Lover pine,

The sacred body of my love,
Equal mate of an equal mate in perfect union blended,
So long so scorned by every trifling scoffer,
Beaten by whips of cords and whips of tongues,
The outcast wanderer banned by monkish gods and puritan men,
Givers so damned, so blushed about yet so hungered for,
At last sets up for itself the claim of noblest origin,
And calls upon the doubting world to hear.

O sacred body of my love!
Let me avow you in words that will be understood:
Do not let me stand back and say nothing while the revilers persecute you

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the braes of Kirtle,
Was lovely as a Grecian maid
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle;
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,
And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.
From many knights and many squires
The Bruce had been selected;
And Gordon, fairest of them all,
By Ellen was rejected.
Sad tidings to that noble Youth!
For it may be proclaimed with truth,
If Bruce hath loved sincerely,
That Gordon loves as dearly.

But what are Gordon's form and face,